The apartment or vault is about ten feet
long; standing in the middle, a man by stretching out his arms may
easily have his fingers in contact with the steel walls on either side.
Overhead is a network of wires, while all about there is a maze of
levers, throttles, wheels, and various mechanical appliances that are
the dismay of all but the mind specially trained in submarine operation.
The commander very minutely inspects everything; a flaw will mean a long
sleep on the bottom, thirty men dead. Everything is tested. Then,
satisfied, the commander creeps through a hole into the central
control-station, where the chief engineer is at his post. The engineer
is an extraordinary individual; the life of the boat and its
effectiveness are in his care. There must be lightning repairs when
anything goes wrong on an undersea craft, and in all respects the
chief's touch must be that of a magician.
Exchanging a word or two with the chief engineer, the commander
continues his way to the torpedo-chamber where the deadly "silverfish,"
as the Germans have named the hideous projectiles, lie. Perhaps he may
stroke their gleaming backs lovingly; one may not account for the loves
of a submarine commander. The second-in-command, in charge of the
armament, joins him in the torpedo-room and receives final instructions
regarding the torpedo and the stowing of other explosives. Forward is
another narrow steel chamber, and next to it is a place like a cupboard
where the cook has just room to stand in front of his doll-house
galley-stove.
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